Three Lives the Winchesters Never Lived
by pablodivaridesagain
Summary: Three different mostly drabbles, for Dean, Sam and John. Oneshot


1. What Dean Winchester Never Was:

"Daddy?"

John looked up from where he was scraping the remnants of leftover spaghetti off of a plate. His little girl, tiny Deanna, stood in the doorway, looking painfully like Mary in John's old undershirt and her white blonde hair hanging all the way to her waist.

"Yeah, D?" John asked, exhausted. Deanna glanced at him uncertainly, but seemed to come to a conclusion to her internal plight because she padded over and shimmied up the chair leg to sit down.

"Daddy, Sammy's all pink in his cheeks. I think he's sick," Deanna broke off, playing with her fingers nervously. John's heart panged when he realized that she was scared he would be angry with her for Sammy's possible illness.

"Okay," John said, standing and putting his dish on the stack that was already piled up in the sink. Deanna wrapped her arms around her father's neck when he picked her up off of the chair and carried her into her and Sammy's room.

Sammy cooed when he saw his family enter. "Deanna, baby, you want to help me check Sammy's temperature?" John asked softly, supporting Deanna's chest as he leaned her into the crib. Together, they reached out and put their hands on Sammy's forehead.

It was felt pretty normal to John, but obviously Deanna didn't feel the same. "Daddy, will he leave?" she asked, blinking up at him with heavily lashed green eyes.

"No, baby. Why would Sammy leave?" John asked his four-year-old as he carried her to her bed and lay her down on the white comforter. Deanna bit her lip.

"Mommy left," she mumbled before trailing off, looking resolutely at the glowing ceiling stars. John felt his heart drop into his shoes and melt.

"Baby, Mommy didn't want to leave. Okay? No one's ever going to leave you." John said, measuring his words carefully. Deanna shot him a skeptical look but said nothing as John stood and, with one last kiss on Deanna's forehead, turned off the light and left the room.

2. What Sam Winchester Never Was:

Sam stared at the letter resignedly, knowing fully well that if he were ever going to be doing this, it would go unblessed. In a brief moment of deep resentment, he realized that if this were any other family in the entire world, he would be dancing around the table, screaming Stanford at the top of his lungs.

But, no, he was Samuel-freaking-Winchester, and he couldn't do that because his father expected him to take care of his younger brother and help him in the family "business".

The sounds of Dean bounding down the hall to the boys" bedroom made Sam dive over to his duffel bag and shove the acceptance letter down deep underneath his clothes just in time. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, but didn't press the matter.

"What's up, dude?" he asked, flinging himself next to Sam on the elder brother's bed. Sam grinned and ruffled the blonde hair despite protests from said fair-haired child.

"Nothing. Dad leaving for his trip?" Sam asked nonchalantly. Dean nodded, oblivious to Sam's underhandedness.

"Yeah, off to go hunt frigging werewolves without us," he muttered darkly. Dean was very unimpressed with the fact that their father had deemed the latest hunt too dangerous for the teenagers, and had decided to go with Caleb and Bobby instead.

"Well, I'll order pizza every night just to make up for it," Sam offered and was treated to a beaming smile from the fourteen-year-old. For the age he was at, Dean was extremely complacent. Sam was immensely relieved. When he was Dean's age, Sam was a walking nightmare. His father couldn't say one thing to him without him blowing up.

"Yeah? And how are you going to explain that to Dad?" Dean challenged, raising his eyebrows. Sam copied the movement.

"Well, who's going to tell him?" Sam replied. Dean crossed his eyes at him as though it were completely obvious.

"It's _Dad_. He doesn't need to be told anything; he just knows it immediately. It's like trying to keep something from Sherlock Holmes mated with a bloodhound," Dean sighed, standing up and grabbing Sam by the elbow, dragging him behind.

They stopped in the living room and Dean forced the eighteen-year-old to sit down as he flipped on their little, colorless TV.

"You want to watch…news…news…_King of the Hill_…some stupid game show…or…a stupid talent show?" Dean asked, looking mildly disgusted at the choices that general cable brought. Sam just observed his brother, grinning when Dean cast a dark look at King of the Hill, rolling his eyes in a haughty way when the fat man said something that made the faux laughter machine start.

"What?" Dean demanded when he caught Sam looking at him.

"Nothing. Go back to the TV, little brother,"

What John Winchester Never Was:

Crouching by the grave, Mary Winchester tried desperately to hold in her wracking sobs, but it was difficult. Sam and Dean were waiting for her near the car, neither comfortable with graveyards in their young age. Mary laughed bitterly, knowing she only had John to thank for that.

She could still close her eyes and see John leaning over Dean's bedside, telling hushed ghost stories under his breath as their blonde little boy stared at him, terrified. After John died and Sam grew up some, Dean told those stories to Sam in the same tone. Mary caught them once and had locked herself in the garage, crying into her husband's old University sweatshirt.

Mary stood, wiping her tears and running mascara with the back of her sleeve. Her head held high, she walked back to the car and had to roll her eyes when she caught sight of Dean trying to teach Sam how to do a headstand.

"Mommy, Lookit Dean! He's real good!" Sam cried eagerly, taking her by the hand and dragging her over to where the blushing eleven-year-old sat.

"Are you Dean? Well, let me see, babe!" Mary coaxed when Dean resolutely didn't move to show her. Dean had been her quiet one ever since John was killed in the fire. Dean was the one who saw him first, and despite intense therapy, it was a miracle if he strung more than four words together at a time. There was the odd occasion when Mary didn't hear him speak at all for weeks at a time.

Dean shrugged and Sam scowled, grabbing his brother's hand.

"You are to! Mommy, Dean showed me howda do it and he's amazing!" Sam babbled, tugging on Dean's hand persistently. Mary smiled at her two sons' stubbornness that reveled John's. And Sammy, her little baby, looked so much like his father that sometimes Mary couldn't look at him without crying.

"Well, you can show me at home," Mary said when Dean made no move to get up and do a headstand. Both boys looked at her with wide, green eyes. Mary was slightly disturbed to see that Dean's showed no emotion besides a mild disinterest.

Sam, however, was an entirely different story. "Did you say bye-bye to Daddy?" he asked seriously. Mary's eyes brimmed with tears again.

"No, baby. I just talked to him a bit, told him how proud he would be of you two boys," Mary said, hoping to quell her son's questions. But by the look of Sam's face, she could tell that this was not the answer he was looking for.

"You should say bye-bye to Daddy," he advised and Mary didn't miss the glance between her two sons. Mary kneeled down so her face was slightly less than even with Sam's and looked into his searching hazel eyes.

"Why, baby?" Mary asked, pushing back the floppy brown hair.

"You aren't going to be coming back no more,"


End file.
